Lost in Translation

I’m trying to make sense of what I’ve experienced since arriving in Tenryūmura—physically and emotionally. And despite all the daunting effort the team has poured into the project, the feeling that stands out the most is a simple one:
the sense of being alive.
Very, very alive.

The first day opened with a walk through the village. The surroundings felt oddly familiar—tea fields, winding rivers, tiny houses. A place large enough for the mountains to breathe green, small enough that everyone knew each other. It reminded me of my childhood.
But this time, I am an outsider.

I’ve barely stayed in Japan, let alone lived in any Japanese community. As Foucault suggests, language underpins the process of socialization and the systems we inhabit. So naturally, everything felt disjointed at first—navigating through my broken Japanese, inventing words, guessing meanings, trying to follow the elders’ rhythm. Nothing felt in its place—contrary to the orderly Japan described in The Chrysanthemum and the Sword. Especially in the early days, when we hadn’t even pinned down our goals for the one-month program, I found myself clinging to fragments of language like puzzle pieces.
First came communication. Then came clarity.

Eventually, someone—or something—helps you make sense of the picture.

Maybe it was the morning 英語授業 (English classes) with the school children. Shy at first, they showed an unexpected openness, and a quiet eagerness to learn. Just as we were curious about the world here, they were drawn to the world beyond it. From struggling to speak to remembering everyone’s name, all it took was a few morning classes and shared smiles.

Or maybe it was the farm work. I never imagined working in the fields, let alone speaking with the farmers whose hands shaped this place. Yet stepping into their day meant surrendering all the energy I had. Fertilizing the soil under the unforgiving sun, picking tea on the mountain edges—I began to feel the rhythm of a life that wasn’t rushed. A life rooted in effort, repetition, and care.
I’m starting to realize there’s no single optimal path to growing up.
Every experience, however tiring or unfamiliar, deserves to be cherished.
One afternoon, I stood in the breeze, facing the river below and the mountains far away, the scent of tea rising with the wind. For the first time in a while, I felt free.

Or maybe it’s just the people.
There’s a moment I look forward to every day—when the kitchen gets crowded, and the six of us are arguing over seasoning or improvising recipes like it’s a group project that actually tastes good. That kind of chaos doesn’t happen when you’re alone.

I’ve always doubted the necessity of summer being this hot. Heat, to me, brought nothing but drowsiness and discomfort. Maybe I’m right—maybe I’d still be happy living alone with the AC on.
But then I think of the photos of children smiling as they walk home.
The かき氷 offered by ていざなす farmers after hours in the sun.
The pat on my back, following my barely understandable sentence.
Where else could I find a season that feels like this?

I, on my behalf, will remember the talks, the laughter, and the smell of freshly made food—all in dedication to this potentially being the last summer on earth.

And maybe that’s what this whole thing has been about:
Not the perfection of the project.
Not even the success of the goals we set (though they do matter).
But the fragments that make up a life—ephemeral, messy, sometimes awkward, but wholly mine in the living of it.

I think about the way people here talk about life. Of the outside world, of children and families, of the food.
It makes me wonder if I’ve ever truly been anywhere before.
If I’ve ever stayed in a place—or in a feeling—long enough to be part of it, even just for a while.

Maybe that’s why I feel so alive.
Because for once, I’m not rushing.
I’m not just visiting.
I’m staying—even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s imperfect.

And for now, that’s enough.
(Echo)